


7010-W009 [English translation]

by Deschayne



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Assassination, Character Death, Death, Gore, Grief/Mourning, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, POV Reno (Compilation of FFVII), Post-Advent Children (Compilation of FFVII), Shock, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29898813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deschayne/pseuds/Deschayne
Summary: "Rufus Shinra died on January 16th at approximately 8:32am." And Reno contemplates.
Relationships: Reno/Rufus Shinra, Rufus X Reno
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	7010-W009 [English translation]

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [7010-W009](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20576423) by [Deschayne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deschayne/pseuds/Deschayne). 



> This is my first time translating one of my fics into English and actually publishing it, so it's very nerve-wracking. It was a little tricky, because there were many terms and phrases involved that you don't excactly use or encounter on a daily base as a non-native speaker. Reno in the German original (of this OS) also uses a very "stylized", choppy, repetitive pattern of speech which doesn't go that well with the smooth and soft flow of the English language in my personal opinion, but yeah.. I might fine tune it in the future. Hope you enjoy anyway!

Rufus Shinra died on January 16th at approximately 8:32am.

Died. That sounds like a process. Like something that required more time than was the case. Like breathing getting slower and slower until it stops for good with one final, deep sigh. Like haltingly whispered words of farewell. Like the closing of weary eyes; like a heart monitor eventually announcing the fateful flatline, equally dramatic and monotonous.

I did the math. His actual dying process should have taken about 0.32 seconds. Too quick for him to grasp.

0.32 seconds and Rufus Shinra turned into potentially infectious material. I saw the print on the standardized plastic bag they used to collect his remains. The parts they were able to collect and scratch off. A large amount of Rufus stayed behind in the wreck and has been scrapped by now. No military orchestra played funeral marches for those molecules. Tough luck, if these were the most important ones. The ones which defined him as a person. Cortex, trigger finger, cock.

Once the fire was extinguished and the forensics done at the crime scene, they came in protective suits. The whole shebang including shoe covers and face masks. Standard procedure when dealing with potentially infectious materials. That's not what he was during his lifetime. I'd know. I would've imagined that viruses, bacteria, fungi, stuff like that, made the crucial difference regarding the classification, but as it turned out, it's solely the arrangement of the tissue. When everything is in place and life inside, it's apparently perfectly safe to shake the bare hand. They would've done so. Without even knowing where his hand had been before. There would've been no disinfection afterwards. And no infection either.

A scorched, wet piece of flesh got overlooked. I picked it up without gloves. They started yelling at me, not worried about securing potential evidence anymore at this point. They were merely concerned for my safety. And I wondered where they'd been all the countless times before, while we exchanged potentially infectious materials. Completely unprotected. I wondered whether I should shove a finger down my throat and throw up right there on the spot into their plastic bag, considering there was even more potentially infectious material from earlier that morning somewhere in my upper digestive system. How ironic that I remember exactly how skeptical I used to be of this whole ass-to-mouth thing due to potential infections. And how fucking ironic that at least a few of his cells could have lived on for a while, if I hadn't agreed this time. Or maybe they don't even survive in asses.

They wanted me to hand over the piece. I refused. And for the first time, there was a shift in tone. I shouldn't blame myself for what happened. They'd perfectly understand that I, as a bodyguard and Turk, had been very close to the president. But I on the other hand, needed to understand that a body had the right to be treated with due respect.

I wondered if it wasn't too late for that, when the intestinal loops of said body were torn to shreds and covering the entire interior of the car, held in place by potentially infectious blood and feces. Burnt in by the flames. I wondered how infectious his remains could possibly be after the fire. I wondered why a wreck was allowed to keep parts of him, yet I wasn't. Except for the contents of my stomach and small intestines.

And then I threw up at last, without even having to shove my finger anywhere.

Not into their bag with the big warning sign. Right before their covered shoes, into the mixture of water, metal splinters and broken glass, while wondering what the point of wearing shoe covers is, when you walk with them over metal splinters and broken glass. Then they came up with that whole idea of me being traumatized and in shock. As if it were perfectly normal to shovel Rufus into a plastic bag, but abnormal to puke at the sight. In any case, once I was done, the last remaining piece of him had left me.

Then came the talks. They didn't involve me in the investigation. We basically already knew who'd been behind it and I'm officially in no shape for a hearing. I decided against their strong advice to accompany the biological waste for the rest of its journey, declaring I felt a strong urge to do so in order to cope. They said something along the lines of this being a very bad idea, but they wouldn't oppose it either, as long as I didn't pick up any pieces again to keep for myself, because at the end of the day, the dignity of the deceased had a higher priority than my "strong urges".

And so I stood and watched, as yet another pair of hands in yet another pair of gloves placed the dangerous goods in one of those plain, solid wood pine coffins approved for cremation. Once again in a plastic bag. I wondered why they had even bothered extinguishing the fire, only for his remains to be burned anyway. They simply could have buried the entire wreck, thus ensuring most of his pieces would've stayed together. Maybe with my puke added on top, for good measure. But that wouldn't have been very respectful. I wondered what was respectful about a plastic bag and why the coffin had to consist of untreated solid wood, while the bag could be made of plastic. Then they put his suit inside as well, arranged in correct order as if his body was wearing it and hadn't been crammed into a bag at the foot of the coffin, with the exception of the particles staying back in the car. And totally ignoring the fact that he was basically still wearing his old suit, as it had become completely inseperable from his remains. I had to laugh. I laughed until I threw up for the second time. That was the point when they finally banned me. As if laughing and puking wasn't the most fitting response to the whole situation.

For the entire 90 minutes I stood outside and observed the column of smoke as it grew into the sky, just as I had watched the first column back in the parking lot. I wondered what made this particular fire more respectful and dignified than the other one. I wondered why he was free to be anywhere. Up there, carried by the wind, stuck in a wreck, stuffed into a plastic bag.

Just no longer beside me. Inside me. With all his infectious potential.

I saw the memorial service and funeral march on TV. It would've made him sick. Me too, so I threw up twice during the broadcast. Once for him, once for myself.

Then they advised me to stay here for a while - no obligation. I started laughing again and just couldn't stop. When they tried to touch me, I saw red. Once I was done, there was an obligation. Reno had turned into a potential danger to others and himself. They failed to realize that I had never been anything else and for all these years had made my living by being potentially dangerous, but at least not infectious. This time around I was the wrong kind of dangerous, I suppose. Just like there seems to be a right and a wrong way to burn.

Almost everything in this room is white. That makes him more present here than in his own urn, for which someone had inappropriately picked a gold alloy. But it looked without a doubt respectful. As if the ashes were right in there and not enclosed in a separate, black, anonymous eco-friendly capsule designed to decay in a few years. As if this even mattered as long as the outer urn didn't. As if there had never been the solid wood coffin, the plastic bag at its foot, the wreck and the smoke.

And us.

At least he's not potentially infectious anymore, but sterile. Now that no one's gonna touch him anyway.

The room is not just white, but also easy to clean. As if I could soon turn into potentially infectious material, too. As if they knew there had been more. As if this more hadn't been purely sex. As if my gay heart were ripped apart and pinned to the back of a front seat; or wherever his had ended up with all the possibilities wide open like his entire ribcage.

Two weeks ago they found the culprit and executed him on the spot. The official version is different. She came by and told me everything. As if I were expected to be happy about even more biological waste in the world. As if it made a difference. I asked her what they had done with the body. Anonymous cremation. I wondered whether yet again a solid wood coffin had been used. Maybe the same batch of wood, maybe even the same tree. The same chimney, where now particles of both of them would cling. I didn't tell her any of these thoughts. Only that I would like to have something that used to belong to him, as I obviously hadn't been able to keep the piece of flesh.

One week ago she visited again and actually brought me his pillow in a plastic bag. Same plastic, different print. His smell and a red hair were still sticking to the fabric. When she was gone, I started looking for a blond one, but only found memories. And five seconds later, I puked all over them. Over the memories, the red hair and all blond ones that might potentially have been there. So the pillow went back into the plastic bag and should be burned by now. No urn for my memories. Just one more column of smoke. At least not the same chimney.

They want me to talk. To show compliance, as if I had chosen to be here. To show grief or guilt, as if I were sad or guilty. After all, we'd only have 12 weeks, if I cooperated. 12 weeks to scrape together my feelings and hand them over in small plastic bags. Maybe I'd talk, if I could. About how it felt when he came inside me. About what I think of their plastic bags and urns with gold alloy and fires. About the fact that they're the insane ones. But they can't and don't want to hear that. And so I trade empty words for high-dose pills as my way of showing compliance. I let the pills disappear in the toilet and send them off with my best wishes in case they stumble upon any remnants of him that had been flushed along with the extinguishing water into the sewer. Right. He's down there, too. With a little bit of suit, a few pills and tons of shit. They must have become suspicious by now, but it looks like I don't have to show any progress. Only compliance. The gold alloy coating this farce that has infected everyone.

Sometimes I wonder how things would've been, if his death had taken longer than the blink of an eye. What his haltingly whispered words of farewell to me would have been. Mine to him. Maybe I would've held his hand for the first time. If he hadn't exploded, been burned, flushed down into the sewers, puked up, scratched together, burned, buried and burned again.

Maybe I should have looked for his hand instead of settling for the first piece of flesh within reach.

Still, it's for the better that he died the way he did. I wouldn't have known what to do with his hair, if there had been any left. The thought of his golden strands sitting perfectly in place forever is just as wrong as imagining them hanging in his eyes without him being able to flick them away.

I never would have asked him about that. Even if there had been all the time in the world and not just 0.37 seconds.

37 days. They think I still don't understand.

I think they never will.


End file.
